To Sara, the evening passed like a dream. This was the first, the very first and most delicate flavour and aroma of love, which with her could only be deep and earnest, full and profound, as her own nature. She knew that she was beautiful, without having ever thought much about it. She had seen admiration in men’s eyes before now; she had heard words of love and beseeching addressed to her once or twice, and all had lightly passed over her spirit, like a breath of air across a fair garden. But Wellfield’s eyes, with their eloquent homage, thrilled her; his mere presence aroused in her the feeling, never known before, of delight, mingled with apprehension; she shrank away from trying to guess, even in her own mind, how much his look meant—what the end of this episode would be. She questioned and doubted, for the first time, her own powers of pleasing, because for the first time she was desirous above all things to please. Advanced spirits may condemn such anxiety as servile and degrading. No opinion is offered upon those points, only the certainty expressed that such feelings of ‘servility’ are very common amongst women, and men too, who are in love. Instead of feeling confidence now, she absolutely trembled lest she should have mistaken the meaning of his glance, and of the few words he had now and then dropped, and which had seemed to her to have a deeper meaning than mere phrases of politeness or of compliment. Such was her deprecatory and tremblingly uncertain state of mind—hers, who had laughed through life, free from tyrant love or care, undaunted by reverses, and holding her own against difficulties with a steadfastness born of innate, inbred courage of soul. Till now every higher thought and aspiration had been resolutely and singly directed towards her art, and her own advancement in it. Her heart’s desire had been faithfully, so far as she could, to act up to Goethe’s words, and— ‘Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren Resolut zu leben.’ The defeat had been rapid and complete, and, true to her woman’s nature, she rejoiced in it rather than otherwise. At least, this night, in Jerome’s presence, and surrounded by the subtle incense of admiration and flattery which he offered her, she rejoiced in it. There were other times, when he was absent, in which the rejoicing was not pure, and the sense of captivity was stronger than the thrill of love. The evening thus passed on, and every time she met those dark and eloquent eyes she felt, with a throb of the heart, the half-welcome, half-dreaded conviction grow stronger—‘This that I see in his eyes is love!’ There ensued a pause in the dancing, organised by Frau von Trockenau, in order to have some music; for she was a woman who utilised all her resources, and never allowed the meanest tool to rust for want of use; and knowing that there were several admirable musicians, vocal and instrumental, in the company, she was firmly resolved that they should display their talents.